In the morning
by thegirlwithlivingdreams
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson are a perfect team... sometimes. When the ex-surgeon went to help Sherlock to stay sober, she wouldn't have imagined how life would be as a consulting detective. But by now, she's into it, and so she and Sherlock help the NYPD to solve cases.
1. Chapter 1

****I'm sorry for bad grammar, spelling mistakes etc. English is not my first language, but I gave my best. Please, if you've got the time, tell me every mistake I made or give suggestions for improvement. I know, I ask for much, but I would be really happy about it! :)

**Chapter One**

Beep. Beep.

Sherlock heard Watson's alarm clock, although he was downstairs in the kitchen, standing with the back to the fridge. He knew well, nothing was in it, and he expected Watson to be in a bad mood. She hated the circumstances he lived in, but there was no way he would change anything. At last, this was his house, and it wouldn't be that long until she would be gone again.

He blinked, focused on the morning light which broke through the window and highlighted Sherlock's hand. The clock on his arm made a ticking noise, like every second, monotone, on and on. 499 seconds from the sun to the earth for light. 299 792 458 meter per second. Ultraviolet. X-rays. Gamma rays. Visible and invisible parts. Some things the human eye could see. And some things that should never be seen. Just like him. The clock ticked again. The second was over.

Sherlock stayed silent, moved a bit to the right, watched outside a window. Even in the early morning, there were many cars driving along the Baker Street. _Tick._

GHU2253: Black Mercedes.

BJE9677: Red Volvo, the right flood light was slightly damaged, there was round dent in it, which wasn't just near the light but continued, not deep, how a fresh one would have been, but hidden under a new film of color and corrections. Obviously, the driver hit a lantern, and he didn't want anyone to notice. He was proud of his car, a family father with two, no, three children. Exactly this car was praised in a TV show for being family friendly with his large back bank. No New Yorker, and he was one, only see the license tag, would buy a large car if there was a smaller, more agile one, and this was the case here. _Tick._

Sherlock sighted. On some days his head seemed to explode because it was so full of thoughts. Today was nothing, he was bored and he truly wished that Watson would hurry on a bit. At the earliest, she would be ready in a half hour. Sherlock thought about how long she always needed to choose her clothes. He didn't see the problem, as long as people were wearing something, everybody was fine with it. (When he was really little, not older than three years and not capable to interpret social conventions, he learned his lesson.) By now, he chose his clothes by purpose. What exactly was interesting about which of two pieces of cloth someone was wearing?

Slowly, he poked around the rooms, waiting for the silent sound of water on the shower floor and then the noises when it ran through the pipes. Watson took her time, even 12 seconds longer than usual. When the sounds finally reached his sensible ears, he went upstairs to her bedroom. In front of her closet, he stopped, opening the doors slowly, first the right one, then the other.

He picked a dark blue cardigan he has never seen before on her and a simple white shirt. When he threw them both about his arm, something fell out the cardigans pocket. It was of rumbled paper which has been fold and unfold many times. But it was heavier than a piece of paper should have been. During one second, he had unfolded it and held the thing in his hand. It was a small silver bracelet, having three charms.

_A moon. A sun. A heart. _

"Forever." the note said.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Forever. Tick.

Sherlock wasn't sure how to feel about it. On the one hand, he wasn't interested. It was Watson! His sober companion, the women who would leave him in a few days. Annoying, somehow, and she clearly underestimated herself. He hated people who did that. How could she do what she might be capable to do if she didn't trusted herself enough? How should anyone trust her? How should she see the world with open eyes, see the world in his way, if she even refused to see herself the way she was? Tick.

On the other hand: It was Watson! The ex-surgeon, who'd shown him different sides of life everyday, barely without doing anything else than talking. The one who was there to take care of him, and who followed this task, much better than everyone else has ever done. And the one he would lose, as soon this week was over. The one he would remember, who wouldn't go without leaving scars on him. Tick.

Without having recognized it, Sherlock has already thrown away the pieces of cloth for wandering through Watson's room without Res. Tick. Tick. Tick.

His hand and his thoughts, both moved around the paper. Although Sherlock never would have never written such a slimy note with such an mainstream message. If it had been a special, meaningful word which would have demonstrated a connection between the guy (it was clearly a men's handwriting) and Watson. But - no - he had to use a Harry Potter pick-up line. Watson deserved better. Watson deserved something special. Sherlock knew that. But the Problem was: Watson herself didn't. Tick

The bracelet itself was as boring as the note. Every child could see the meaning of the sun and the moon. Two worlds, big differences, Joan as the sun and the guy as the moon, the heart connecting them. "Doubt that the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move his aides, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love" as Shakespeare would have said. Hamlet. Act 2. Scene 2. Tick.

Sherlock hold a sign of love in his hand, love from a man who adored his Watson, who thought that some silver bracelet, which wasn't real silver, and a word could mean something to Watson. And he was right. The paper was used, folded and unfolded, watched. Maybe she was thinking about the man who write it, thought about him with the stitch of missing in her heart. She must be hurt. She never wore the bracelet and Sherlock knew that she would have worn it if she would have been able to do it. But it must have hurt too much.

He knew the pain well, knew the feeling that one part of oneself is missing. Silently, he packed the jewellery back in the paper, not without having the heart resting between two fingers, feeling the cold metal of the thin plate. At all, it didn't make a difference, did t it? It was a piece of metal, unimportant like a piece of cloth. And still, it bothered Sherlock. When he put it in the middle of the paper, right above "Forever" he folded the corners, putting them softly back. Then he let the package fall back into the pocket, took the cardigan and put it back in the closet. Instead, he chose a white blouse and black jeans for her.

When Watson was finally getting out of the bathroom, she didn't even hesitate. By now, she was used to Sherlock lying on her bed in the morning. She went closer, looked at him. His eyes were closed, next to him laid a blouse and trousers. This outfit definitely needed to be spiced up a bit, but it was better than the first outfits he choose for her. She allowed herself a little moment to truly look at him, the silent smile resting on his mouth, the chin, the tattoos on his arm where the sleeve of his arm was moved a bit up. Somehow, she wanted to touch them, to follow the entangled lines. Surprised about her own thoughts, she shook her head. It was Sherlock she was thing about.

Sherlock suddenly got up, his upper part of the body straight in the air.

"I know you're staring" he said, looking at her face blushing slightly red. "Just saying, no need to be ashamed. But don't be ridiculous, get dressed and then it's time for you to eat your breakfast." He already hurried out of her room.

"Oh, and hurry up a bit!" Watson heard from downstairs.


End file.
